Letters
by CisLovesMatt
Summary: 1940, England is in the midst of the Blitz, fighting alone every day. He sends one letter a day asking for help, but will he ever get an answer? Or will it be too late?
1. Chapter 1

**AN**: Hey, look who's back! Sorry guys, no update for Duplicity, but I'm trying out an old idea to try and get my rhythm back. This is a short little three chapter thing I dreamt up after learning about the London Blitz-and coming to hate my portrayal of it in Perfect Enemies (where America comes in and saves poor England :P let's get real here...)

Tis not USUK. If you're looking for that, turn around.

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><p><strong>London, December 29th, 1940<strong>

**8:00 am**

The air was stagnant, unmoving like the sky itself was holding its breath in wait.

England breathed in the cold air deeply, tucking his hands into pockets with a tired look at the sky. It was gray, overcast with no patch of blue visible. He paused, wishing for a long moment that the thick shroud of clouds would break for a moment, just one small moment, and show him that the sky was still there.

_Give me something. Please… anything_. He begged silently, allowing his eyes to pass over the scene surrounding him on the ground. A shudder ran up his spine.

London was gray, pale and lifeless like the sky above him. Smoke rose in distant columns from the centre of the city, the remnants of the previous nights bombing. It had been a lighter one, only focused on crippling the government, but England was still trying to shake off the jolts of pain that shot through his chest whenever a fire sparked up again.

Sending one last glance at the sky, he began his slow walk down the street with a sigh. Really, he mused wryly, why was he looking for hope from the clouds? The only thing that came from them was more destruction, more hurt as he felt every single civilian death. Some nights, like last, he would have only pinpricks that made it difficult to sleep. Others... others he would barely remember, only find himself in a hospital the next morning with one of his leaders watching over him.

"_Blitzkrieg_." England spat the word like a curse, kicking a loose brick from a levelled building. 'Lightning warfare'... he had to admit that damn Kraut had aptly named his way of fighting. On the worst nights it was impossible to tell whether it was planes dropping the bombs, or if the heavens had just opened and unleashed their own fury.

Stopping again, England clenched his fingers. Bloody hell, what was going on with him? It was Christmas time, and he was moping around in a way that reminded him all too much of a certain Frog. He was _English_ for God's sake; he would not stoop to self-pity.

Not when his people wouldn't.

England smiled slightly, lip turning up into less of grimace. Despite the ruthless attacks, specifically designed to panic the citizens, Londoners and the rest of the country had held together and supported each other through the terrifying nights. Even at his worst moments, England could still feel their spirit burning in him.

_Never surrender... _

That had been his motto for months, specifically 114 days. Whether anyone stood by him or not Britain would never be taken while he could stand.

**1:00 PM**

With a tired groan, England finished going through his enormous pile of mail that had accumulated on his desk while he had been busy helping with the repair of a hospital. How the RAF spared anyone to deliver the cursed letters, he had no idea; however, they arrived daily nonetheless.

The first, and largest, pile was the propaganda rubbish that Germany was always trying to force down his throat. England tossed it in the wastebasket with a disdainful flick of the wrist. That Kraut was truly delusional if he believed a few Nazi pamphlets, each prophesising the demise of the British Empire, were going to get him to surrender peacefully.

The next, and slightly more helpful, was a shipment order from America's boss. England had mixed feeling upon seeing the younger nation's seal on an envelope. Although America was financially and, covertly at times, slipping him arms and supplies, the other nation's claimed neutrality on the entire issue was... a slap in the face to say the least. While he had forced himself to grateful, England couldn't help but feel bitter about being left in the cold. Again.

_Not that I care_. He thought vehemently. _I'm fine on my own. I can fight my own war without any Yankee, Pole, or Frog_...

Which, speaking of said Frog, that led to his next letter. It was marked with the French tricolour, but with a red symbol and yellow stars taking up the central white stripe. The handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar, but that was no surprise. The nation it had come from no longer had the same name.

England ground his teeth, opening the letter with loathing. As usual, the greeting at the top was formal, ringing of German censorship.

_Britain,_

_My superiors have asked me to request that you stop harassing my navy. I am still separate from Germany, I have my own government. Please stop treating me like an enemy. _

_Vichy France_.

That letter followed Germany's, only in a considerably more torn up state. It needled England to see that 'France' was still signed in the same hand, although the rest was completely alien to him. It forced him to remember, as much as he didn't want to, that France _was_ his enemy now. Half his country was German territory, the rest was controlled by Nazi puppets.

_I'm fine though. I can fight my own war_.

England forced France and the other occupied nations out of his thoughts, looking instead at his last pile of notes. They bore his own marks, but also Canada's. Unlike America, Canada _was_ fighting on his side, if out in the Atlantic. The mild-mannered nation sent him a worried letter every week, asking if he was alright, if there was anything for the rest of the family to do.

England smiled fondly, appreciating the help his colonies were sending him. A warship or two, planes, money to relocate the children in his cities...

It was all very nice, he couldn't deny that, but when the bombs were falling, it wasn't Canada, India, Jamaica, or anyone else taking the hits. It was him, and after the warning sirens went off he was alone. There was no one there to hold him when he couldn't walk the short distance to his bomb shelter. There was no one to smile, to whisper in his ear that everything was going to be alright when planes were screaming by overhead. There was no one at all.

Not that he cared.

Really.

England shook his head, picking up a pen and reminding himself that his work wasn't finished yet. He had no time to dwell on idiotic things like company. Who the hell would want another person there? They would probably just cry and blubber.

No, he was alright and he had to finish his letters. One to Churchill, warning him that Scotland was getting rowdy about the RAF not protecting his cities more. Another to Canada, downplaying Germany's success in the bombing. A cold answer to France, telling him he would back down when hell froze over.

And finally... one more.

The last letter, which he took the time to write every day, was not on official business. It was a tradition he had started months before, almost an unconscious therapy for him.

He would take a paper and begin to describe his day; the tea he had managed to find, the boring details of haggling over a turnip at the market, it all went in there. Slowly though, he would gain momentum and end up describing the struggles of the bombings. Those letters were the only place he would allow himself to admit how tired he was, how difficult it was to even roll out of bed some days. Then he would finish the letter with another rarity, a true plea for help. Begging, he realised.

Then he would seal it, and address it to a certain Alfred F Jones.

Those letters never got a response; England was relatively sure in his "isolationist" mood that America never opened a single one of them. Besides, after their last meeting there were no fond feelings between them.

But whether he read them or not didn't really matter to the British nation; it was more about having one tiny moment in his day where he stopped lying to himself. What Alfred did with it was up to him.

Todays would be a short one; after all, it was Christmas still and nearly the new year. He didn't have much to say; there were only the barest few celebrations in the city, none of which he was able to attend. He had spent most of the past few evenings taking walks alone, breath clouding the chilly air and hands tucked into his pockets.

There wasn't even much news militarily. The air raids hadn't stopped, but they had decreased notably. England was no fool to think they were going to end, but he was enjoying the brief respite. Thinking that to be a positive note, he focused the letter on it and had finished within a few minutes. He didn't bother much with his usual pleading, which left him in higher spirits.

"Well, that was simple." England murmured, filing the envelope away and standing slowly. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, scratching at the back of his neck absentmindedly. He was relatively sure he had no more official work for the day planned, so he was free to do as he pleased. Leisure time, in another world.

But, England reflected with a grim smile, this was Britain, 1940. There was no leisure time.

So he quickly changed his clothes and, forgoing a nap that he would probably need later, put on a borrowed hardhat and grabbed a shovel on the way out of his door. London needed repairing, and whether Germany tried to level it that night or no, England was determined to never give up.

**6:00PM**

Wiping a hand across his sweat drenched brow, England stood up straight to survey his work. Over the past few hours he and a handful of fellow Britons had managed to unearth a trapped family who had been buried for almost a day and a half under the rubble of their home. As smile ghosted on the nation's lips as he turned away from the tearful reunion between relatives who thought they would never see each other again.

But, even as England relished the small victory, a haunting wail filled the air, cutting the moment short. Green eyes went wide and his fingers turned white from gripping the shaft of the shovel. Slowly, loathingly, England turned his eyes toward the sky as the sirens increased in volume.

The sun had barely gone down, making the sky a dusky blue that played tricks on his eyes. Was that a plane? A hint of the black shadows that haunted his nightmares?

Abruptly cold, England took a shaky step forward as everyone around him scattered and began shouting. No one seemed to notice him, the lone person who couldn't seem to move fast enough, who couldn't force themselves to find a life-saving shelter. He was alone, shaking uncontrollably in the stifling night air.

_Dammit, move Arthur_. A voice ordered him from somewhere in his conscious. _Don't just stand there, what is _wrong _with you?_

Shivering, England tried to figure out what _was _wrong with him. He rarely acted like this during a raid, especially in the past month. They had almost become part of everyday life... but he just couldn't move. Something was very, very wrong and he knew it.

The sirens wail increased in pitch, raising the hairs on the nape of England's neck. He wrapped his arms around his torso and set his jaw, taking a halting step toward his home. One, then two, and three... he kept going at an alarmingly slow pace, inching closer to the slight shelter of his house.

"Bloody hell, what would Churchill say if he saw me?" England growled to himself, realising how idiotic it was to be _walking_. Both his pride and fear of the coming Germans propelled him into a jog, and eventually a full-fledged sprint. Even with that, he had only just reached his doorstep when the first bomb streaked by, red against the sky, and crashed into central London.

"Mgf." England tsked in the back of his throat, ignoring the jolt to turn the doorknob. More bombs fell in quick succession before he could step inside, but he kept going. He had only a few moments before the attack would move toward other parts of London and himself.

Throwing open the door to his study, England snatched his letters from that day and a pen. There was nothing else valuable to him in the house; he had long since moved it into Canada's care. As soon as his fingers closed on the papers he was out into the hallway, displacing the rug in his rush to get to the front door.

Outside the horizon was already beginning to glow a molten red, bright enough to light England's way through his garden to the makeshift shelter he had set up there. His boss would have had his head if he knew the nation spent the raids here, but he had sent his neighbour to take his place in the underground tube station.

England ran the last few feet, dropping down under the flimsy metal covering he had rigged up. Above him the raid sirens had been silenced and the lights of the city extinguished, but the fires still burned and another unholy screaming rang out. After so many raids he could pick out the sounds of different planes with ease, and, to England's dismay, he could only hear the growls of German Messerschmitts and shrieks of Stukas overhead. If there were any Hurricanes or Spitfires among them, they were woefully outnumbered.

"God save us..." England muttered, covering his head as a plane dropped a bomb on his block. It was just another pang adding to the growing ache in his chest, like a flame being kindled in his heart. It tore at him, building and building until it was a raging bonfire.

Fingers tight in his coat and eyes stretched wide, England stared at the sky and tried to keep quiet. It became a losing battle though, as real fires sprung up all across the city. It was like burning from the inside out and no matter how he beat at his skin or coughed smoke there was no relief. It was hell, hell like he had only experienced once before in 1666.

_I swore I would never allow it to happen again_... England thought, squirming helplessly against the heat. _I would never let... London_... _"Gaahhh!"_

His vision blanked to red, coming back to the ground under his cheek. England coughed again, tasting ash on his tongue, and let out a groan. Dirt lodged itself under his fingernails as he clawed for something, anything to hold onto.

_It's so... hot..._ A drip of sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eye. The burning became unbearable right over his heart and England tried desperately to pull the fabric of his shirt away, hoping the cool air would help, but the motion only showed him the blackened burn spreading like magic across pale skin. His breath caught, coming out in pained whimper.

_I'm never going to last_.

It had been a mere five minutes, yet he could barely push himself upright. How long would the raid go on? It was a heavy one, he could already tell, but the Germans would have to turn back within twenty minutes.

Unless, of course, they brought reinforcements...

England sucked in a shuddering breath, bracing himself against the garden wall. No, this wasn't going to be a short raid. The fires would continue, even the Thames would dry up for lack of water, and he would be nothing but ash, a burnt out, dead nation. Germany would have a simple task to come across the Channel and start the invasion he had wanted to do for so long.

England would fall, just like the others.

_I c-can't hold on._.. He closed his eyes, feeling minutes tick by agonizingly slow. Seconds, minutes, hours... it had to be midnight and there was still no end in sight.

_...g-going to pass out_. England's head felt too heavy for his neck, and the world spun in a slow, confused circle around him. Rockets wove light patterns across his vision, planes played a hellish symphony for his ears, and the dying screams of his people were echoed in his own tormented cries.

Half-delirious, he turned to the side, hand searching across the ground in jerky movements. He couldn't die like this, he had to thwart Germany in the one way he could. His weapon couldn't be a rifle, but a pen.

It was difficult with his sight threatening to go black and hands shaking uncontrollably, but England managed to find a paper and his pen. He addressed it without thinking and scrawled out a note, not even sure what he was writing for at times. All he knew was that his time was running out, and this was his last chance to say...

...to say...

_I just want to say_...

His hands finished the word his mind couldn't process, and he managed to sign his name as another bomb took him down into black oblivion.

The letter remained clenched in his hand, safe throughout the night to be found the next day by rescuers, sent by a worried government to find him. Sympathetic hands found the note, and eventually it was placed in the mail to begin its long trip across the Atlantic.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN**: I won't give anything away, but the dates are rather important in this fic ;3

And all of my italics got strung together for some reason, so I'm sorry if I missed fixing any ^^;

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><p><strong>December 7th, 1941<strong>

America sat motionlessly, eyes locked on his kitchen table like it held a ticking bomb. Which, he relented with a sigh, might have been easier to deal with.

What was really on his table was a rather large stack of envelopes. Their exact number was a mystery to him; he had lost track somewhere after 30. They arrived in bundles of three, one for each day, wedged between his normal mail. Each and every one was thrown into a pile in the corner of the room like junk waiting to be used as a fire-starter for his woodstove.

Not that America could have let that happen.

He had tried numerous times to get rid of the cursed letters. The stove, shredding them, he had even managed to get them in the trash once. But somehow, for reasons he couldn't fathom, something kept him from touching a flame to the corner of even one envelope. The only time he succeeded in throwing them in the trash his conscious forced him to go root them back out at midnight.

So there they sat, torturing him from the corner of the dining room. Each day he passed them on the way to work, each day he came home to find them waiting for him. One would have figured he would just open them and get it over with, but something equally powerful held him from doing that too.

That something was the name on the return address.

_Arthur __Kirkland_.

A sour mood came over America once more as he read the name off the nearest envelope. His fingers clenched under the table and his shuddered involuntarily, still rankled by the memory that name called to mind.

"_Bloody hell Alfred, what do you mean 'neutral?" _

_America met England's blazing green eyes with blue, enraged expression on his own features. "I can't go to war again, look what it did to me last time!" He shouted, bristling at the other's attack. "It's not my problem, you and France can deal with Germany this time!" _

_England__'__s __brows __pulled __down.__ "__You __did __just __as __much __as __us! __We __all __took __it __too __far __in __that __damned __treaty __and __we __should _all _pay __the __price!__" __He __threw __his __arms __out __to __the __side __in __exasperation.__ "__What __the __bloody __hell __is __wrong __with __you __all __the __sudden? __You__'__re __just __going __to __leave __us __to __deal __with him__? __After __what __he __did __to __Poland?__"_

_America turned away, voice going uncharacteristically quiet. "Yes, I am. This isn't my war, alright? I don't want to fight anymore!" _

_Eyes __narrowing, __England __growled,__ "__It __is __and __you __know __it. __If __you __don__'__t __help __stop __him __now __then __you__'__ll _see _it. __This __war __will __hit __you __closer __to __home __than __you __ever __believed __possible, _America_.__" _

"_Is __that __a__t threat, _Iggy_?__"_

_England scoffed, crossing his arms and shaking his head in contempt. "No, you coward, that's a warning. That's a warning for someone who would rather hide than do what is needed." _

_America's eyes went wide behind his glasses. 'Coward' was one of the worst insults you could use on him, and here was England saying it. England, his brother and the one who he thought would understand, was turning on him. _

_A bitter taste filled his mouth, only made worse by the words he spat back, "Fine, I'm a coward. Then I'll go hide and let you talk your battle plans over with your darling Frenchman, alright? If that's even what you two talk about—"_

_America never saw England move, just felt his fist as it backhanded him. Next thing he knew he was on the floor, staring dizzily up at a seething Englishman. _

"_Get __out.__" __England __barked, __pointing __at __the __door. __When __America __was __slow __to __obey __he__marched __over __and __flung __it __open __hard __enough __for __it __to __hit __the __wall with a resounding _bang._ "__I __said _get out!_"_

_America did just that, nearly breaking the hinges as he slammed the door shut. _

That was the last time he had seen England face to face, right before he took off in a rage from London. Their leaders were still in contact, of course, and America heard a stray rumor or two about what was happening to the older nation. But still he had refused to look at the letters.

This had gone on for days, weeks. He received a note on Christmas, and a few more after that. But after the one dated 'December 29th' something strange happened; England stopped, never sending another. It was almost like he just ceased to exist after that day.

America made it through a few weeks of seeing the pile of envelopes. He regretted putting them in his kitchen, where he had to pass them constantly, but wouldn't go near enough to relocate them to another room. And each time he looked in that direction they burned at him, almost taunting him.

_Coward, __you __can__'__t __even __read __them_.

He made it through those weeks, but one day it was too much. America had to give in, picking only four out of over a hundred. One he made sure was the first, another the last. Aside from that he allowed himself to choose two more at random and hurried away.

Once he had the envelopes he went into his study and flicked on the light, setting the letters down on the desk. For a long moment he just stood there, considering what he was about to do. He wanted nothing of the war, and if he opened these he would be involving himself.

He didn't want to do that, but he couldn't get it out of his head how suddenly England had stopped sending them. America knew the elder nation had taken some hard hits, but nothing _that_ bad… right?

Steeling himself, he picked up the oldest letter. There was only one way to find out…

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><p><em>September 4, 1940<em>

_Dear Alfred, _

_We are doing alright right now, not that you seem to care. If I thought you would accept it I might apologise, but I doubt you're even reading this. Actually, since you won't see it, I will apologise. _

_I'm sorry. I have never thought you are a coward, but if you look at it from my point of view you are abandoning us. Again. But I'm not writing this for sentiments, only to tell you what is happening here. _

_Germany seems occupied for the moment with Italy…they are acting like friends now, which worries me. Germany has sent a few planes to attack me, but nothing the RAF can't deal with. I have lost a large amount of my pilots, but nonetheless, I'll be fine. _

_Canada's still distraught over the entire Dunkirk ordeal and what happened to France. The poor lad still cared about him after all these years, and the few times we've been allowed to see him France has only gotten worse. At least we've been able to contact him; I haven't heard from Poland in almost a year. He and the other Eastern Europeans are probably taking the worst of it at the moment, what with Russia's meddling. _

_We also aren't winning many fights; Germany is just too strong. His damn U-boats are wreaking havoc with my merchant ships out in the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Just last week he attacked one that was pulling into a harbour. Hundreds of innocent people died before anyone could get there. _

_Though, on the brighter side, Canada is lending me a hand whenever he can, wherever he can. We'll be stretched thin if we are to defend all my colonies, but we'll have to manage. _

_Wish us luck. _

_Love,_

_Arthur_

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><p><em>September 30, 1940<em>

_Dear Alfred, _

_I will continue to call you that, despite the fact that you never write back. Maybe I'm a fool, sitting here writing letter after letter while people are outside dying…but every time I try to forget about my letters I feel guilty and write one anyway, even if it's only a sentence. _

_I still care about you Alfred, please, believe me._

_But… even if you don't I'll write to you and pretend that you do. We need something to believe in, for nothing seems to be going particularly well here. The fight is raging on, not just on two fronts this time, but on most every continent. Even Australia is beginning to fear an invasion. _

_The Occupied nations are fairing… similarly as far as I can tell. There still has been no news from Poland, aside from a stray rumour or two. Belgium talked to me recently and relayed the fear between her and her neighbours about Germany's control. It needles me… but I can't push him back alone. France's battle proved that. _

_Also, I know you probably don't want to hear about me, but I will tell you anyway. Germany has been running night air raids on London, Bristol, and Liverpool. They come so regularly now that you can expect them every night without fail. I've tried to fight him, but the RAF just can't stop every attack. We've been trying to counter them by running raids on Berlin, but we are always on the defence. I don't have enough bombers to do damage to Germany's cities, so I have to wait each time for him to make the first move. It's maddening, but my people have held together amazingly well. I won't disappoint them. _

_But… I'm tired Alfred, the constant fighting is wearing me down. Now something has started in Asia too. Japan is trying to take Hong Kong from me and I don't know if I have the strength to fight him anymore. _

_Please Alfred, I'm still fighting to keep Germany back, but I can't hold on forever. Sooner or later he'll come for you._

_I just pray I'm not there to see it. _

_Goodbye and love, you git,_

_Arthur_

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><p><em>November 21, 1940<em>

_Dear Alfred,_

_Whether you really knew about it or not, and Churchill thought you didn't, I did receive the supplies your government sent. But ammunition is little use if there is no one left to pull the trigger. _

_Germany has started increasing the force of the raids, no longer focusing on just my industry anymore. Civilians are dying by the dozens, and they go to bed each evening wondering what they'll lose through the night. Their family? Their homes? Maybe even their lives and country…?_

_But even with that they haven't given up. My government is still running and keeping control, BBC is still broadcasting, and I'm still, for the moment, fighting. It might be a losing battle… in fact I'm almost sure it is. Our greatest defence, the coastal radar that warns where and when the Luftwaffe will attack, is becoming fragile. A ten mile stretch of it got taken down by a missile, but the Germans haven't seemed to notice. Yet, that is. _

_Canada given me everything he has, but it won't be enough anymore. Even as I'm writing this the Luftwaffe are on their way again. _

_Alfred, I promised myself I wouldn't do this, but I'm not asking for just me anymore; please come and help. I know we seem far away, like this will never reach you, but this war is not Europe's. It's everyone's, including yours. _

_But I'm…well I'm supposed to be resting right now, so the nurses are forcing me to put my 'scribbling' away. I'll have to end it here and hope that someone will get the mail out. _

_I hope to hear from you, but I'm not even sure we'll be here tomorrow. Every sunrise we see is miracle now._

_Dammit, twat, I still love you, _

_Arthur_

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><p><em>December 29, 1940<em>

_Alfred,_

_Please, I'm begging you now. I'm about to be overrun. I… I don't even know how to describe what's happening here. It's been one hundred and fourteen days... and I can't do it. I don't know if I'll even make it through the night. The New Year was so close… but..._

_Damn, I can't even think straight. The fires are spreading, I can tell from here... I can't stop them Alfred. Germany is winning tonight, and what if there isn't a tomorrow? I'll lose, and then there's no one to stop him from getting to all of you. _

_Please, for everyone, not just me, please come back. I might be gone before you read this, so forget about being angry with me! Forget Britain, forget Europe, Alfred he's going to come for America too. Save your home! _

_I don't know if you'll get this…but I'll say goodbye. I don't think see you again... Yes, I'll have to say goodbye. It's much better, it makes it seem like someone else is here, saying goodbye does. It's not as lonely. I'm sorry if we've argued, I'm sorry I couldn't have done this is person. Don't waste time being angry Alfred, you never know when yours will run out... God, France even said that to me at Dunkirk and I didn't listen..._

_Forgive __me, __please. __Tell __everyone __I __do __love __them, __including __you. __I __know __I __never __showed __it __much... __but __hopefully __you __can __remember __me __kindly. __It__'__s __the __last __you__'__ll __have __of __me; __if __Germany __takes __the __city __then __I__'__ll __refuse __to __surrender. __I __saw __what __happened __to __the __other __countries __he__c onquered. __I__'__d __rather __die __than __become __a __puppet __of __a __murderer_.

_Goodbye, __with __love __forever, __your __brother,_

_Arthur_

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><p>The vilest of phrases dropped from America's lips as he slammed the letter against the desk.<p>

Arthur. Dammit. He had left Arthur, his _brother_, over there with nothing. His own family, whether flesh and blood or not. It was so low, so utterly wrong and twisted… and something only a coward would do.

_I__… __hid_. America gripped his hair, staring wide-eyed down at the desk. Between his elbows he could see the torn paper of the final letter and it's hastily scrawled message. Across the top was a dirty fingerprint, almost like the writer had been clawing in mud, and even more disturbingly a few reddish-brown spots that he had been in enough wars to recognize as blood. The very paper itself screamed desperation.

_I __was __a __coward__—__no, __no._ He tightened his fingers, tugging at blond hair painfully. _I __was __only __following __orders. __That__'__s __always __been __my __policy, __if __it__'__s __not __my __business __don__'__t __get __involved. __Ever __since __Washington, __Jefferson, __Monroe__… __I __tried __to __keep __to __myself_. _Even __if __the __others __hated __me_.

Isolationist. Self-centered. Brash little brat. He had been called all of those throughout his life when he ducked foreign alliances. America had been taught since independence that he must keep to himself and not be drawn into the costly battles of Europe. But... he had gone against that. Somewhere along the line he started _crossing_ the line into other nation's affairs. Russia's revolution, fights with Mexico, and eventually, worst of all, he had gotten pulled into the largest war the world had ever known. He paid dearly for it.

He was only trying to avoid doing it again.

_I __was __following __orders, __it __wasn__'__t __my __choice, __Arthur_. America ground his teeth, imagining what the older nation's response would be. Sneering, mocking as he had been back when America had the gale to issue the Monroe Doctrine. He'd probably call him a boy, lost in a man's world. He'd look down on him like he always had. He'd just…

…_plead __with __me_.

Blue eyes flew open.

Pleading… that was what England had been doing in his letter. He wasn't insulting America, he was genuinely asking him for help. There was no snide, British Empire hidden in those words.

America's eyes grew abruptly wet.

_He __actually __opened __himself __up__… __after __all __these __years. __He __was __willing __to __forget __what __happened __between __us __and __I __ignored __him_.

Covering his face with his palms, America took a shuddering breath. There was nothing he could do to repair this, no way he would ever gain that stubborn old fool's trust again. Even if he were to fly over at that moment and save what was left of England's country it was too late to get to _Arthur_.

_He__'__ll __hate __me __again_. The realization weighed heavily on America's shoulders, making him slump in his chair, but there was a slowly hardening resolve in him. Even if it was too late to save his relationship with England, he might be able to keep him from any further harm. His bosses would have to relent this time; America could feel his people's underlying resentment toward their policies growing. There was fear, he knew that all too well, but also a nervous energy that made him need to move, need to do _something_.

_I__'__ll __force __them __to __listen. __I__'__ll __make __them __hear __me __this __time_.

Standing so quickly that he knocked over his chair, America hurried toward the front door. As he snatched his coat and hat out of the closet he glanced at the clock. It was getting close to 1:30 in the afternoon and, unfortunately, a Sunday. Most of the diplomats in DC would have gone home long ago if they came to work at all, but he had to try. If anything he might be able to track someone down at home and speak with them.

_If __I __have __to __I__'__ll __find __the __president __on __his __lunch__break_. America decided, turning the knob to the door. 1:23, there had to still be someone left at that time, right?

He was still reassuring himself as he began to lock the door, so he blamed his frazzled thoughts for how badly his hand shook and made him drop the key. Puzzled, America leaned down and tried to pick the small piece of metal up again, only to have a sharp pain jolt up from the fingertips of his left hand to his wrist.

_What…?_

America raised an eyebrow, staring at his hand with more confusion than alarm. An odd tingling sensation was spreading up his arm, unlike anything he could remember before. The key stayed on the mat, forgotten, as pinpricks danced across the skin of his palm.

_That__'__s __odd, __I __wonder __what_— "_Shit_, what the _hell_?"

The pinpricks were no longer mild tingling, but more like someone had taken a steak knife and was deliberately driving it through his palm repeatedly. America swore, gripping the limb and looking around the street for help. No one was out, and shortly he had fallen to his knees, pained breaths escaping through clenched teeth.

_This __is__… __dammit_… A groan ripped free of him, despite his efforts to stay quiet. In a kind of morbid fascination, America watched as his palm blackened as if burnt by and unseen fire. One by one the fingers of his left hand gave a small, but audible snap as bones broke.

A wave of nausea hit the kneeling nation, making him swoon to the side. The worried cries of his neighbors carried America into a painful limbo between waking and dreaming where he was only aware of two things.

One, he had failed to get Arthur the support he needed.

And two, he himself was under attack.

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: _Now_ I'll explain...

**Yes, this is referring to Pearl Harbor**. I have seen dozens of Hetalia interpretations of this event, but this is the best was I could think to represent it's effect on America-It obviously was not our largest loss of manpower in the war, but it crippled most of the Pacific defenses. So, no, I don't have America coughing up blood or anything like that, he's just temporarily lost the use of his left hand. And a bit of shock... ^^;

**Arthur's Letters**... Mostly don't correspond with a specific date, except December 29th when one of the largest raids of the Battle of Britain was launched by the Luftwaffe. I tried pretty hard to keep the other ones believeable (would have loved to mention Hong Kong, but the date doesn't work)

**America's Isolationist mindset**: As much as this contrasts our... erm... recent policies... America has for the majority of history been isolationist when it comes to foriegn affairs. It carries all the way back from the founding fathers, and one of the best example's of "GET AWAY EUROPEANS" would have to be the Monroe Doctrine where we ordered that no more land, once lost, could be won by an outside European power. (The British Navy unexpectedly backing us up is probably the only reason France and Spain didn't call our bluff on that one O_O)


	3. Chapter 3

**London, December, 1941**

America opened the familiar, worn door, his movements slow and uncertain. He had known this place from the time he was a child, and now he felt like a child again, lost and afraid of what he was coming into.

He started to call out, as he had done so many times before, but the words caught in his throat and came out as nothing but a tired sigh. He glanced up and surveyed the hall, wincing as it seemed far too bright, noon sunlight streaming in. It hurt his eyes, forcing him to look down to avoid a headache. He had been getting a lot of those lately.

Keeping his eyes down, America padded down the hall. It was unsettlingly silent, no movement at all from the rooms ahead. In fact they were empty; the kitchen had no cook, the living room no guests, and the bedroom no one resting. There was obvious lack of any homely objects or knickknacks, almost as if the house had long been left deserted. Nonetheless, America checked each room, lump growing in his throat as he faced the final choice.

It was an office, and once again one that he was well acquainted with. As a child he wasn't allowed in; as a teenager he had been there numerous times, most of them filled with shouting and arguments. This room held so many memories, good and bad. It was the one he had run away from years ago, abandoning the person left behind…

And now he was back, about to beg forgiveness for the exact same offense.

Dread weighing down on him, America reached out to turn the knob on the door. It turned smoothly under his hand and the door swung open with barely a sound. He stepped inside and shut it behind himself, eyes still averted to the floor the entire time. In a final effort to stall he squared his shoulders and shifted on his feet.

Then, steeling himself, he looked up.

One the other side of the room, seated with their back to him, was another man. His arms were resting stiffly at the chair's sides and his blond hair was outlined by the sunlight that had been plaguing America earlier, giving him the appearance of having a golden halo. But there was nothing angelic about the hatred rolling off him, accentuated by the tenseness in his shoulders.

"You're here." He spoke dryly, putting no emotion in the words. They were cold, and as forgiving as a slap to the face for America.

"Yes." The younger nation said quietly, wishing he could have been as frigid in his reply. But his voice shook, and he knew the other man had heard it. But what would his reaction be?

There was a long pause, then, "It's late."

For a moment America was confused, it was barely noon, but then he realized the other wasn't referring to the time. It was late for _this_. For coming here.

"I know."

The other man went silent, refusing to move or speak. Even from behind America could see that his chin was held up, pride keeping him from accepting his guest.

America shuffled awkwardly, searching for something to say. He had thought this all through on the plane ride over, but every phrase, every scenario he had thought of couldn't have prepared him for this treatment. He could have dealt with anger. Even rage. He would have been ecstatic if he was given forgiveness or the slightest welcome. But this… _nothing_ was killing him.

So he blurted the first thing out that came to mind, hoping for any reaction at all. "I read your letters."

Nothing but silence. Outside a bird trilled, but the man before him refused even one word.

"I—ah," America ran his fingers through his hair, beginning to become desperate. "Look, I'm sorry."

The bird continued to be the only sound, and the other blond stayed as still as a living statue. America slumped, unable to take it anymore. He turned quickly, about to go out the door and tell his superior that he would have to find some other way to do this. There would be no reconciliation today.

But, just as his hand touched the door, there was a rustle from behind him. America forced himself to stop and look one more time.

The other man had turned, green eyes half-lidded and exhausted. Scars marred his skin every few inches where it was visible, especially near his collar where a hint of a burn stood out against pale skin. He just looked for a long moment, lips set in a tight line as he took in America.

The other nation returned the gaze, lips parted in a surprised noise. Was this…? No, it didn't look anything like him. This couldn't be the same man that used to lead him by the hand, who used to look so tall and powerful with his feathered hat and great ships. This wasn't even the one who he had crawled with through mud only years before, the one whose face always held a fierce snarl in the trenches despite a constant rain of rockets and machine gun fire. This worn, thin creature with empty eyes was nothing like him.

But as much as America didn't want to believe it this was England. This was the great British Empire.

"You…" He stopped, not wanting to describe what he saw. America had only once before put it to words, and it was his most painful memory concerning the other nation.

_You… used to be so big_.

England's eyes went down and he turned back around, moving like he was fragile and ready to break at any moment. His hand moved to the desk, closing over an envelope. He held it up, saying simply, "I never sent it."

America stepped forward, taking the paper numbly. England's hand dropped to his side and he went back to staring in the opposite direction.

Swallowing painfully past the lump that felt like it completely cutting off his throat, America opened the letter.

_April 5, 1941_

_America,_

_You never came, but I assume you know that. The raids have all but ended about a week ago and I can begin to total up my losses. It will be a long and painful process, but I won't waste my ink telling you about it. You obviously do not have the slightest interest or concern for my affairs. _

_So I will just go straight to my point. _

_Britain is still standing today; it was not destroyed by the Germans. I am not wearing a swastika, nor did I sign an armistice. I am not neutral. I may be one of the last nations left to fight the Axis, but I am _here_. _

_No thanks to you. _

_You sent me supplies, you did small things, and I know, some day, American history books will sing the songs of the few of your countrymen that were here. But I want to tell you it was not you or anyone else who won this for me. I fought tooth and nail and I survived over a hundred days and nights _alone_. Maybe Germany is onto something; he says I continue fighting just for the sake of being difficult. I agree with him now, because after what I've seen there is no other reason. There are no victories, there is no good, there is no end in sight. _

_And there are no heroes._

_If you receive this I almost wish you wouldn't bother coming. I sent you close to 120 letters, each of them begging you to come for one reason or another. I asked you to keep Canada out of the war, to help me rescue France, Poland, Belgium, or anyone else. I asked for your sake. I even asked for me. _

_You never came, which, now that I'm still standing, made me realise something. _

_I might accept your help, I might fight this war one day on your side. You might save everyone else and get thanks from all of them. But me? I stood alone, and I made it without you. _

_So you might fight alongside me, but know that you'll never fight _for_ me._

_Sincerely, _

_England _

America winced, feeling the sting in the signature. England heard him shift and sighed.

"I was angry at you, so I didn't send it." He explained dryly, putting his hand on the desk for support as he faced the younger nation fully. "But it still holds true. My people are strong, they don't need to be rescued."

America recoiled from the biting words, head down. "I'm sorry Arthur." He whispered, hands going automatically across his chest in a defensive position. The left, his dominate one for half a century, gave a strong pang as he moved it. A pained expression flinted across his face before he could stop it and America was embarrassingly aware of England's gaze falling on the bandaged limb.

The older man looked for a second longer, then, almost hesitantly, picked another envelope off his desk. "I also never sent this."

America was reluctant to take the second letter, wondering what he was in for this time. But England's expression made it apparent he had no choice in the matter, so he took it and removed the envelope as slowly as possible, delaying. Eventually, though, he had to read the words written neatly in England's hand.

_December 8, 1941_

_Alfred,_

_I won't call you 'Dear Alfred' yet. It tastes wrong on my tongue, it doesn't look right on paper._

_But despite that I would be a bastard if I didn't write this. I heard about Japan, and, even in the wake of what just happened here, I know this has hit you hard. So I wanted to offer my condolences for all your citizens at Pearl Harbor. _

_Churchill has informed me that you will join the war and many of your troops will be arriving here since your Pacific bases have been destroyed. I should be relieved, after all, we can finally go on the offensive, but I don't know what I can say when I see you. _

_I won't lie, this is going to be difficult. I might not ever forget that you stayed neutral, and now, even though you will be coming to help, that it was only because Japan forced you to join. _

_I need time, Alfred, I need a lot of time. But maybe, one day soon, I can ignore the idea of fighting 'for' someone else. I don't want you for that. Hopefully we can just agree to fight together, as equals, even as brothers, for the same cause._

_I'm sorry, _

_Arthur_

"I hated you."

America looked up at England's sudden words, barely finished reading the letter. The Briton's fingers were clenched into a fist, eyes on a far corner of the room. His jaw worked for a moment, but he shook his head and opened his clenched hand slowly, releasing the buildup of tension with it.

"I hated you, but I can't stay angry at you!" He glanced back, giving America a characteristic scowl. The expression was so normal, so out of place for their conversation, that America couldn't stop the chuckle that erupted from him.

England's eyebrows furrowed further. "What, you think I'm joking?" He asked in annoyance, crossing his arms.

America stifled his laughter, not wanting to send the other nation back into his cold, harsh attitude again. "No, no, of course I don't." He replied hurriedly, holding up his hands in defense. There was no holding back a touch of a smile though. "It's just… I haven't seen you give me that look in a long time."

England eyed him warily, wondering what he was about, but snorted at his wording nonetheless. "I'm glad you find it amusing when someone considers you a complete and utter idiot." He muttered, turning back to his desk. His expression sobered and his hand went to his brow, massaging it distractedly. His eyes fell shut. "Idiocy aside, I meant what I said. You're late, even if you're here. I _am_ appreciative, but for cripes sake don't ask me to thank you yet Alfred!"

A fist hit the desk and America's mouth opened in surprise as England's speech quickened, suddenly escalating to a shout. The Briton was abruptly tense a bowstring, shoulders hunched like a cornered animal. The change caught America so off guard his first instinct was to try and put a comforting hand out to the other nation.

The second his palm toughed England's shoulder America found his wrist caught in an iron grip. Blazing green eyes faced him, wide and disconcertingly unfocused.

"A-Arthur?" He stuttered, taking a step back.

"Don't… t-touch me." England's voice broke and his fingers on America's wrist shook, eventually sliding away to fall limply at his side. He hung his head, "Just… not now Alfred."

_He's… scared._ America stumbled backward, reeling. What had been done to terrify_ England_, he didn't even want to imagine, but whatever it was it had been bad enough for the British nation to be quaking in his chair. Like he was afraid he might be attacked at any moment…

…shit.

Of course.

"Arthur, it's over." America whispered, keeping his distance and giving the elder man breathing room. "I'm not Germany, I'm here to help. Mattie's flying in from Hong Kong, he'll be here soon too. We're all friends."

England shivered, crossing his arms and gripping at his shoulders. He shook his head and looked blankly out the window. "I know. I know dammit." He ground his teeth, obviously embarrassed. "I'm not used to anyone but _him _crossing the Channel. I can feel it now, when another nation comes across the border, and it just sets me on edge, alright?" He could practically hear the sirens wailing again, the airplanes roaring, the sickening feeling of another nation there _watching_.

America watched England battle with himself, torn between the desire to try and help or just stay back. In the end he did step forward, reaching out again, but his hand only rested on the back of the chair. England stiffened at the proximity, but after an annoyed huff seemed to relax fractionally.

"I'm not Germany, Arthur," Giving a wry smile behind the Brit's back, America sighed. "And whether either of us likes it or not we're brothers, stuck together until the end."

England's brow pulled up and his face twisted in an effort to conceal his expression. What exactly that expression was, America would never know because at that moment the other nation was on his feet, moving with none of the frailty that would have been expected.

"I assume you'll want the front room."

With that he pushed by, stepping gracefully on America's toes as he went to find blankets and make up the bed. Behind him, America stifled a yelp for his abused foot and stared with disbelief.

"That's—"

England stopped, turning balefully. America's mouth snapped shut on the end of his comment.

_That's it?_

No… further discussion? Just back to… normal? (if this could be considered the least bit normal) It left him feeling like there was so much more to say, so much that just… wasn't there.

America remained silent, and after a moment England left. As his footsteps retreated upstairs America wondered if this meant he would never be forgiven. It happened—oh, he knew it was possible for nations to never forgiven each other. Russia would never forgive him for the business during his revolution, England and France would never put certain battles to rest, and many others. Living hundreds of years didn't mean they had to learn anything from them.

He didn't want that. At one time, not long ago in fact, America would have given up everything west of the Mississippi if he never had to see St. George's cross flying in the wind ever again. Now it felt wrong to just let England walk away into another room without some kind of resolution between them.

America made a decision then and took the steps two at a time, only slowing with a curse when his bandaged arm smacked into the banister. He pushed on, hissing between his teeth and trying to focus on moving his feet rather than his aching bones.

The 'front room" as England called it was directly at the end of the steps and to the left. Why England himself hadn't taken it, America had always wondered. It had the finest view of the city, but the Briton's own bed was situated down the hall in a room with windows facing his neighbor's wall. At one time America would have guessed he was just spoiling his charge; now it seemed more likely the other nation didn't want to see what had become of his city.

Whatever the reason, the front room was already made up for him by the time he lurched through the doorway. England was somewhere else, but America paused nonetheless.

The other man had smoothed a tattered, but clean set of blankets over the bed and pulled the quilt down, removing the shams too. He obviously remembered America would sleep on them without a thought. But that wasn't what made the western country pause.

Tossed almost carelessly at the head of the bed was an ancient pillow, and a familiar one at that. It was a lumpy, ill-formed thing that looked about as comfortable as a rock and most people would have thrown it out. Well, not _everyone_. A historian might give it to a museum, as it was over 200 years old.

America stepped over quietly, running a hand along the frayed tassels in the corners. He was amazed they stayed on at all; he had sewn them on himself, back when he wanted to do everything and anything England did. The pillow was the result of many pin-pricked fingers and teary nights sitting on his guardians lap while the older nation helped him fix his stitching. A lump grew in America's throat.

"Found it in the closet." England said from the doorway. His tone stayed flat, but America caught the expectancy in it.

"Why?" The taller blond asked, hand dropping to his side. _I'm not a child… why would you do that_?

He wanted to have England forgive him, but he also didn't want the elder man going back to their relationship from long ago. It wouldn't work, and the vicious cycle of drawing together and breaking apart would continue.

"I thought it might help you sleep." England replied, and America's head bowed.

"Arthur…"

"…but you're no infant, and it's not noon naptime." Green eyes sparkled a little, amusement leaking from their owner. "It's actually closer to teatime, and if you expect me to discuss where we're going to put thousands of your loud, obnoxious soldiers on my islands I need a steaming cup. You know where the kettle is."

"So I… do." America took a second to realize he had just been given an order.

"You are a capable adult, are you not?" England questioned with a tilt of his head.

America frowned, understanding making slow progress in his mind, but nodded.

"Good. Then I'll be in the living room. The damned draft up here is making me feel like an old man."

And once again the moment was over, leaving America feeling… unfinished. There was no blow up, no sparks, no clash of wills. Come to think of it, they had only had one such collision, and it was on a rainy field in 1783.

_I hated you, but I can't stay angry at you_.

Anticlimactic.

That was the word for them, America suddenly realized. He would never get his moment to pour out his feelings because England already understood them. They would never resolve the anger between them because it had never honestly been there. Not like he had thought, at least. He would never hear the words _I consider you my equal _from his brother, because England already treated him like one.

Anticlimactic—no showy resolution, no pinpointed second where everything fell into place. Just a simple sense that they were continuing on, side by side, brother with brother.

"Alfred, the only thing getting anywhere near boiling down here is my annoyance for slow Americans!"

America smiled.

"Coming, Arthur."

* * *

><p><strong>AN<strong>: That took way too long. But it was a really,_ really_ hard ending to write! D: I'd love any feedback on the platonic-historical USUK relationship... thing.

I don't think any dates need much explanation, although_ 1783_ is when America and England would have faced off in the famous episode, not 1776.

Hope you all enjoyed!


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